


Rekindled

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Dragons, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, tatoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 05:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5773678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the bowels of Central City, there’s a hovel where no one goes. Last person who went through ended up with severe burns and a one-way ticket to a mental institution.</p><p>Hearing that, Len knows he’s heading in the right direction. Dragons rarely abandon their caves, after all."</p><p> </p><p>[Or: how Cold's recruitment of Heat Wave could've gone if Mick was a dragon and they had a more...complicated history.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rekindled

**Author's Note:**

> I have no one to blame but myself. This is what I get for trying to write fantasy novels.

In the bowels of Central City, there’s a hovel where no one goes. Last person who went through ended up with severe burns and a one-way ticket to a mental institution.

Hearing that, Len knows he’s heading in the right direction. Dragons rarely abandon their caves, after all.

Every bit of this section of the sewer is completely dry, noxious fumes replaced by scorch marks and the burning scent of fire, despite the apparent lack of flames. Len resists the urge to wrinkle his nose at it.

There’s a single skylight above them, big enough for a dragon of this one’s enormous size to fit through. Neither dragon nor visitor steps into it.

Glowing orange-red swirls churning around blown pupils stare Len down. Cold keeps his posture straight. Best way to earn a dragon’s respect is to not back down.

A growling hum. A talon tap-scratching the stone. _Click-scriiitch, click-scriiitch_.

He knows how much Len hates that sound. Still, neither concedes.

At last, a voice hoarse with smoke: “Well, well, well. Looks like you still got some balls left after all.” The scratching stops. A red paw covered with scars teases into the light. “What do you want, Snart?”

Another surefire way of earning a dragon’s respect: entertainment.

Tilting his head, Len puts all his authority into his words: “I know it’s been a while since we pulled that job. I know it didn’t go so well for you. And I know I said we were finished, but things have changed.” An interested rumble. Good. Len continues, “If I want to keep working in Central City, I’m gonna need a new kind of crew. I’m gonna need something like you.”

He presents the metal case. “You’re tolerant of extremes, you have certain—skills. You just need some direction. And I can give that to you.”

The case slides into the light. Olive branch extended.

“Still can’t breathe fire in human skin? You’re gonna love this.”

The glowing eyes disappear. Crackling noises echo from the dark.

Footsteps. Then Mick Rory steps into the light. He’s kept a few physicalities of his true form, namely the wings and swishing tail, both bedecked with spikes that look like they’ve been charred. But they’re both compressed to fit this skin.

Mick snatches up the case and the nearest lighter from his hoard. With a resounding clatter, the former smashes to the floor, its cargo safely in the dragon’s hand. Although he doesn’t need it to see by, Mick flicks on the lighter and runs it over the gun anyway. Len wisely doesn’t comment.

The heat gun’s first shot licks at the wall right next to Len, who resolutely keeps his expression cool in spite of the heat nearly touching his boots. Mick laughs as only he can, wild and unreserved.

Once the fire clears, the crucial part begins. Len knows the heat gun is a generous gift. But dragons are nothing if not greedy, jealous creatures. He’s prepared for Mick’s change in expression, the liberated grin to the conniving glee, and remains neutral.

“We’d be working together, huh?” comes the predicted question as the lighter is set aside and the heat gun undergoes another reverent examination.

“Yes,” answers Cold, matching Mick smirk for smirk, “just like old times.”

“That right?”

The moment has arrived. Len will no longer deny he’s been waiting for this since he walked out. No point in hiding anything from a dragon; he knows that all too well.

Two steps forward. Cold’s boots almost touch Mick’s bare feet. Slowly, Len reaches between them and takes Mick’s hand, idly musing on how the skin’s still steaming from transformation.

Mick already knows what he’s about to do, but he watches anyway. Watches as Len guides his fingers over and down, down, until a pale hip bone covered sporadically with tattoos is exposed to his heated palm.

There. In its own little circle, a pile of angry purple ashes. The tattoos seem to know its significance, giving it a wide berth despite Len’s efforts. Mick’s pupils turn to vertical slits as he takes it in.

Len breaks the bated silence, whispering next to Mick’s ear: “That’s right.”

Mick’s throat clicks on a swallow. “And how do I know you’re not lyin’?”

Len turns his head so he’s practically kissing Mick’s skin. “Touch and you’ll find out.”

“Could be an illusion for all I know. You’re a powerful one, Snart.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, but you should know that no power in this or any world can mask something like this.”

Mick’s tongue peeks out, running across his lips in anticipation. He believes him. Len can hear his own heartbeat in the seconds it takes for the decision to be made.

Those seconds pass, and Mick’s thumb strokes the ashes, once…twice.

The faintest wriggle, like something’s buried in them.

Mick’s breath leaves him in a billowing gust. He does it again, faster, once-twice; a beak thrusts from the pile.

Like a flip book, the Mark moves as Mick continues to touch. A blue phoenix rises from the ashes fully grown and engulfed in flame as red as Mick’s scales. He can’t see Cold’s face, but he can feel Len’s eyes drift shut for just a moment, savoring.

While the phoenix comes to rest midflight, Mick meets Len’s eyes again. “I wouldn’t have to listen to your talk, would I?”

A thrill shoots up Len’s spine; he’s won.

“Of course you would,” he says. “So, are you in, Mick, or are you out?”

And Mick, with a final brush against the Mark, folds his wings in ready submission. “Yeah buddy,” he chuckles, “I’m in.”

**Author's Note:**

> LET THIS SHIP RISE.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Oh and yes, the other Rogues are in this 'verse. Hartley's a banshee; Mardon's a sorcerer; Shawna's an air spirit; Bivolo's a gorgon. You know what Mick is, of course.
> 
> What creatures are Lisa and Len? Well, human, obviously.   
> Completely. Definitely.  
> Human.  
> 100%.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
